The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

Friends in Odd Places

Previously: "The Reward for Jobs Done Well" 

Bonelessly you let Chelsea turn you onto your back and push apart your legs. With practiced fingers she undoes your belt, unbuttons your jeans, and pulls them apart to expose your boxers. She pulls your cock out through the gap at front, and after giving you a long and hungry look, she puts her face to your crotch and takes your member in her mouth.

* * * * *

Oh, Jesus, does she know what she's doing! Patterson has gotten blow jobs before, but they've usually been fumbling and tentative things. Chelsea goes down on you like a fat girl going down on a banana split. She is all tongue, all throat, and all hot, velvety business.

Almost instantly you are hard, but you steel yourself to hold yourself back because you don't want it to end too soon. So you lay back and stare at the ceiling while gently cradling the side of Chelsea's head, thinking of almost anything except the extraordinary mouthwork going on below: the sound of gym play down below; the rattle of the vents; the feel of the warped floor beneath you. Summer afternoons when you were six and played outside until dusk; the anticipation of waiting for the movie to start while munching popcorn; Brenda Decarlo's breasts. All of it goes into the blender, with one thought or memory morphing dreamlike into the next. And the whole time another part of your brain is just rocking out to the incredible beat that is raging up your spinal column via the small of your back from your pelvis.

Chelsea knows better than to stretch it out too long, though, for she releases you to tear the condom from its sheet, and she rolls it down your raging boner. Then she stands over you, straddling your hips like a hot, blonde, sexy Colossus of Rhodes and kicks off her own jeans and panties. Naked from the waist down, she lowers herself onto her knees and takes your screaming shaft up inside her.

And that's when you lose it.

* * * * *

"I don't mind, Will, I don't mind it one freaking bit!" she exults.

She is still riding your cock up and down—and you are still maintaining it—as she cries and whimpers at the ceiling. "I'm getting ... what ... I wanted! And ... I'm getting it ... good and ... .... .... hard!" She screams the word and you almost levitate under her, pushing up into her as deeply as you can. She gurgles and gulps while chewing on her fist while screwing herself down even more firmly upon you.

Then with one last, furious shudder, she sags and falls forward, catching herself by putting her hands on your shoulders. Her hair falls forward and tickles your face.

She giggles. "Hi Will," she says.

"Hi Chelsea," you reply.

"Mmm," she says. "I'm not going to ask you how it was. I know it was good."

"It was very good," you agree. "It was awesome!"

"Mmrrhm!" she says again. "We're gonna do it again real soon, aren't we, Will?"

"Do it as much as you like. Whenever you want." You raise your hands to brace her, gripping her on either side of her dangling boobs. "Why do you keep calling me 'Will'?"

She snorts a little, and peers at you. "Don't you want me to call you by your real name?" she asks.

Then she frowns. "You're still there, aren't you, Will, you didn't move back to—"

"No, I'm still here. I'm just surprised you're looking at ... me. And calling me by my real name."

She groans softly.

"Because that's who you really are. Steve's an asshole. Steve would never have helped me with Seth and Cindy." She sucks on her lower lip. "And Steve would never have been able to fuck me like that."

Oh, sure he could, you think. Personally, he loathes Chelsea. But there's nothing personal in the deep, penetrating fucks he likes to give.

"What about you?" you ask. "Could you have done it with Steve?"

Her face scrunches up in a crooked grin.

"I'd'a never done with Steve," she says. "But with you as Steve? Oh my God, do you think that's kinky or something? Getting off on someone you hate? Because it's not really them?" She giggles.

"Maybe a little," you admit.

"Would you fuck someone you hated? If it was really me?"

"Oh, sure." You caress her face. "I'd fuck you whatever you looked like."

"Oooh!" she says, and her eyes light up. "That sounds like a challenge!"

The remark makes you a little uncomfortable, so you can't help asking, "Would you fuck me whatever I looked like?"

You are rapidly losing your erection, and maybe she's noticed, for she tries grinding herself down onto it. Or maybe she's just trying to reassure you? Because she says, "Get yourself a mask of the dorkiest dope in school, Will, and see if I don't!"

And with that, her elbows buckle, putting her full weight onto your arms. You let her down slowly, and she melts like blonde goo all over your torso.

* * * * *

Of course you have to clean yourself up before you can go to sixth, but since it's a weight-lifting class, it's all seamless. That class is relaxingly brainless, but you also drift through seventh, so that you have to jerk yourself back into awareness a couple of times before you lose the thread of the lecture.

You get to the last period of the day early: not as early as Marjorie, but before her two guy friends show up. Whatsisnuts stops dead when he sees you waiting outside the doorway, and when he tries to flee he gets stuck in the crowd so that you're able to grab him easy.

Bang!

The door leading outside actually bounces off the outside wall, that's how hard you kick it, and you thrust Dorkface—the guy with the mullet, the glasses, and the weedy mustache—through. Gripping him by the neck and the back of the belt, you hustle him along before you, and he stumbles over his own feet. The sophomores sitting in front of the portables scatter like a flock of seagulls as you approach. Behind, you can hear Marjorie yelling at you as she follows.

You throw Dickwad against the wall of the nearest portable and spin him around.

"You got a problem with me going out with your friend Brenda?" you demand of him.

His eyes blink in terror behind his glasses. You press your fist into his chest and repeat the question: "I said, you got a problem with me going out with your friend Brenda?"

His jaw works silently, then he gulps out a "No!"

Fist still pressed against his chest, you turn to the others who followed you: Marjorie and her other friend. He looks scared, but he hops from foot to foot as though nerving himself to fling himself at you. Marjorie—hot and flushed—glares at you. You start with the guy: "Do you got a problem with me going out with your friend Brenda?"

He doesn't answer, but looks at Marjorie.

So you ask her. "What about you? Got a problem with me going out with Brenda?"

Her lip curls, and the light in her eye answers your question. But she can't seem to find the words to with it.

But you know how to turn silence into consent.

"Good," you say. "I guess no one here does. Glad to know it, because it's none of your fucking business, is it?"

You let the moment hang.

Then you drop your fist from Dorkwad's chest, and put your hands on your hips as you glare around the circle.

"So if no one's got a problem here, how come I'm getting attitude? If I'm friends with Brenda, and you're all friends with Brenda, how come I'm not getting any friendship from you? Ain't no reason I can see we can't all get along."

You drop a loose arm onto Dumbfuck's shoulders, and haul him in close. He petrifies at your touch.

"Ain't no reason I can see that we can't all be friends. If I'm being an asshole to you, it's because someone was an asshole to me first." You direct that last line at Marjorie, who is white with fury.

"But if we're all friends, then we're all friends. You treat me right, I treat you right. We all have a good time. And I look out for you. Anyone messes with you, they gotta mess with me. See how it works? All for one and one for all."

You drag Fuckknob by his shoulders back toward the school building, brushing past the fuming Marjorie and her silent friend. On the way, you address your new friend in a voice loud enough that the others, trailing behind, can here.

"Is that the first time anyone's ever hauled you out to the portables?" you ask.

You can feel him suck in a shuddering breath before answering. "Um ... Not really, no."

"Well, that's too bad. But stick with me, and I guarantee it'll be the last."

* * * * *

Javits seems to have found his footing since you last saw him, and he is professional and business-like at practice. He asks if you've got any special instructions for handling Richards and the others; you tell him just to make sure they are doing the work, and to "encourage" them to do their best. You don't pay much attention to him otherwise.

Afterward, though, you make a point of inviting him up into the loft. You and he are both sitting there, relaxing with a beer each, when Gordon comes in. He's got his arm crooked around Chelsea's neck.

She smiles at you and Javits, but addresses herself to Gordon.

"Oh God, it's such a freaking mess," she moans as she sinks onto another mat with him. "I mean, I get to reorganize the squad from the ground up now. But it was going to be hard enough filling two empty slots, but now I've got to fill a third? Way for Cindy to leave me in the lurch by quitting!"

Next: "Fading Thunder" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"